


we’ll be fathers, sort of

by zweebie



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale is a mess, Based on a Tumblr Post, Crowley is a mess, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Podfics Welcome, because of course I need to include something angsty, ineffable husbands, parenting AU, they're both just dumbasses in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zweebie/pseuds/zweebie
Summary: In a moment of either goodness or stupidity, Crowley saves the third baby from being disposed of. Now, apparently, he and Aziraphale have to take care of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on @aelita15's tumblr post:
> 
> _Au where Crowley gets to the hospital to deliver the antichrist, discovers there are three babies, and in a moment of absolute panic and stupidity makes the switch happen between the two human babies and keeps the antichrist with himself making the nuns believe that was just the extra baby_
> 
> _Shows up at the bookshop while screaming WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE the whole time_
> 
> _This is the parenting!au everyone wants but we absolutely do not need, they’re morons._
> 
> I know that in the books the baby gets adopted and wins prizes for his tropical fishes but let me take some liberties here
> 
> previously titled 'find me somebody to love', because i'm indecisive

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says into the phone, hands gripping the steering wheel, “I’ve got a problem.”

“I don’t have time for a problem right now, Crowley, I’ve got a meeting with one of those dreadful men in the black glasses in just a few moments. They want to buy the bookshop.”

“You’re selling the bookshop?” Crowley sputters, veering around a car in front of him. He can hear the little basket in the back sliding across the seat, and he glances at it.

“No, no, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Crowley huffs, exasperated, as he hears a thin wail start up behind him. Why do people like babies? Why would anyone ever choose to have one? This one’s only been in his possession for a few hours, and already it’s making him want to climb out the window of his very fast-moving car. “I’m coming over, angel,” he says, and then hangs up the phone before Aziraphale can even think to protest.

It had all started at the nunnery, right after the switch had been made. He’d decided at the last moment to oversee the process, and couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of concern when the shorter nun, the tired looking one, said she would “ _dispose of the baby_.”

“Sorry, erm, ma’am,” he’d said, rushing after her down the hallway, “what exactly is going to happen to the child?”

“We’re disposing of it. No adoption agencies nearby, and there’ve been whispers in the air that the nunnery is going to break apart soon. No time to raise the child ourselves, you understand.”

“And by _dispose of_ , you mean…”

“We prefer the term _dispose_ , but if you must know, we’re going to kill it.”

Crowley groans and ran his hands through his hair. This is ridiculous. This isn’t him. Or at least, this hasn’t been him, not since the fall.

Well, maybe there was a time, after the fall, that he still tried to be good. He didn’t become a demon because he was evil, after all. But.

And now there’s a baby, about to be murdered. “Why didn’t you lie to me? Why didn’t you say that you were going to get it adopted?” Crowley asked wretchedly.

“Excuse me?”

“Alright, here,” Crowley said, holding out his hands.

“What are you doing?” the nun asked, looking quite put out by all of this.

“I’ll take the baby.”

“What?”

“It’s part of,” he said, scrambling to come up with the right words to explain why a _demon_ would ever want to rescue a child, “the er, the Grand Plan. The people up there, I mean. I’ve got strict orders.”

“Oh,” the nun said, eyes widening. “You mean I have to…” Crowley nodded meaningfully, and she jumped into action. “Oh, I’m so sorry. We had no idea you had orders, else we would never have—”

“Oh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Tell you what—the Head Office actually meant for this to be a small thing, secretive. Can’t have it getting out that we’re rescuing babies, am I right? If you don’t tell Sister—what’s it, Loquacious or something—then I won’t tell the people up there,” he looked upwards meaningfully, “about this little near-mistake.”

“May I ask—why are you rescuing babies anyway?”

“Oh, sorry—” he said, snapping his fingers and pulling his now loudly ringing phone out of his pocket, “phone call.” Then, “Hi, Crowley here,” and under his breath, “mind if I get a basket?”

And now he’s careening down a raging London road, and the baby is making a shrill shrieking noise Crowley has no idea how to deal with, and he’s regretting a very large portion of the last century.

“Angel!” he exclaims, throwing the bookshop door open.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, standing up from his little mahogany desk. The shop is crowded with books, piled on every surface, even the ugly tartan couch. Crowley had tried to get Aziraphale to throw out that couch too many times, but he always insisted it was _stylish_. “Oh, I do hope you miracled that door open,” he says, wringing his hands, “it’s much too expensive for me to keep replacing it every time I come over.”

“Course I miracled it, angel,” Crowley says, placing the basket in Aziraphale’s arms. He receives it with a fair amount of reluctance.

“What is this?” Aziraphale asks, looking up at Crowley and down at the basket and back again.

“Sorry?” Crowley asks, hurrying over to the little door that he knows leads to the staircase, and then to Aziraphale’s apartment. “Do you have any extra blankets?”

“Blankets? For who—” The baby starts to wail again, a thin and weak sound, and Crowley looks back to see Aziraphale staring down at the basket, stricken. “Crowley, you _didn’t_ —”

“Come on, follow me,” Crowley says, cocking his head in a _come with me_ gesture.

“I can’t leave the baby!” Aziraphale cries, still standing as if he’s frozen.

“Then bring it with you!”

“I—yes. Fine. Alright.” And Aziraphale follows Crowley up the stairs.

“Sorry, did you say that you had spare blankets or not?”

“I’ve got a set, in the—the back cupboard, but could you—could you please tell me what is going on?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can tell that he would be wringing his hands if they were available.

Crowley takes the box from Aziraphale’s hands and lays it on the bed. “Aziraphale, I need help,” he says.

“You need help—of course you need help. How did you get the baby?”

“Armageddon?”

“ _Armageddon_?”

“Yes, angel, Armageddon. The whole world is melting into a pile of burning goo in eleven years, and I had to deliver it. I mean, not deliver _Armageddon_ , but deliver the baby. Which is the antichrist.”

“You brought the antichrist into my bookshop?” Aziraphale cries, taking a step away from the now wailing basket.

“Oh—no, no. There were two— _three_ babies. And one of them was with an American woman, and one of them went to one from Tadfield, or somewhere in that area. The one that the American woman got was the Antichrist.”

“Crowley, you’re not making any sense!”

“We had to switch out the babies, see? Quick little switcharoo.”

Aziraphale makes a little noise of horror, and Crowley presses on.

“But then we have an extra baby. You’ve got a baby, and then you replace it with Satan’s child,” (another noise of horror), “and now you’ve got an extra baby. So what’d’you do with that one? Where does it go? Down the garbage chute, according to the nuns.”

“They threw it away?”

“Well, no. They killed it. _Well_ , no. I took it. See? Are you happy? I saved the baby!”

“But—Crowley—oh, could you make it be quiet?” Aziraphale asks, exhaustion and anxiety written all over his face.

Crowley grumbles something and snaps his fingers, then opens the basket and fiddles around a little. There’s a moment’s pause, and then the crying stops.

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Did you—”

“Kill it? No. Why’d I go through all the trouble of saving it’s life just to kill it? I got it a drink.”

“A _drink?”_

“Food, Aziraphale, food. Do you even know how babies work?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can see him physically relax. He walks to Crowley’s side, peeking in. “So, erm. What exactly are you planning to do with this baby, now you have it?”

“Aaaand that’s where you come in,” Crowley says, wincing.

“Crowley, I am not taking care of that child!” Aziraphale cries, straightening again.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all! I mean, not alone. At least.”

“Are you really planning to raise it?”

“Of course not! Just keep it, y’know, until it’s of adoptable age, or something. Or until I have the papers together. This child doesn’t technically have parents, remember? And if we turn it over to the authorities they might figure out we switched the babies, and then we’re in a whole lot of trouble. We don’t want the people up there calling in, do we?” He points at the ceiling, but he knows Aziraphale can tell he’s really pointing at something much farther away than that.

“No, I suppose we don’t,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. Crowley waits, looking at him over his sunglasses. Finally, he takes in a breath and straightens. “You must stay here, though.”

“Here? Why? What do you mean?”

“You have to stay in my flat. Because let’s be honest, your apartment is no place to be raising a child. And I refuse to let you put this all on me.”

This could mean a lot of things. Crowley doubts strongly that he’ll end up moving into Aziraphale’s apartment permanently; he doesn’t really believe that this will last, for some reason. They’ll get out of it, they always do. And then it’s back to normal life, in their separate flats, only meeting up to discuss the Arrangement and have drinks. And that’s the only reason he says “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm literally going on the vaguest possible idea of a plot here, so get ready for a lot of gratuitous fluff. just fluff EVERYWHERE. 
> 
> comments give me life when good omens rewatches can't, so please leave one if you liked the story!


	2. Chapter 2

“So what’s the status?” Crowley’s voice normally sounds loudly through the cluttered little bookshop, coming from the tinny telephone speaker. You’d expect a speaker of that quality to have broken years ago, or at least, like it’s name, to sound tinny, but it works perfectly. Many of the customers and Crowley have pestered Aziraphale about replacing his speaker, over the years, but he refuses to. If it works, why throw it away? 

“Please come over. It’s rather messy, I’m afraid, but I need help.” There’s a knock at the door, and he walks over, irritated.  _ Can’t anyone read the sign? _ “Just a moment,” he says into the phone, and then shoos at them. “It’s awful,” he says, “I always try to keep the bookshop open during the day, but I can’t let anyone see the baby.”

“Just keep it upstairs,” Crowley says, and then he yells something obscene. He must be driving.

“I can’t keep it upstairs, it’ll suffocate. Or crawl off the bed, or out of the window. Or it’ll get to the wine bottles. Oh, God, this is far too difficult.”

“I thought you never wanted to sell any books, anyway. You wanted to keep them all cooped up there.”

“Of course I do, but I can’t have  _ them  _ knowing that, or they won’t let me keep the shop.” He hears another curse from Crowley’s side and winces. “Can you just come?”

“Fine, Angel, I’m on my way already,” he says, and then hangs up.

“Thank goodness,” Aziraphale breathes, and the baby starts to cry.

* * *

“Sorry I’m so late,” Crowley says when he finally arrives. “It’s been so hectic, packing up my things and setting my phone to transfer all calls here.”

“That’s ridiculous, you could have just miracled it. And besides, you only get calls from me.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and steps back. “That’s rude. That’s what you are— _ rude.” _

“Besides, it’s easy for you to say it’s been hectic. I had to learn to change a diaper,” Aziraphale says, shuddering. 

“A diaper? How do you do that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Aziraphale says. 

Here’s the thing: It’s basically in an Angel’s contract to be great with kids. To be nurturing and sweet and kind-hearted and as generous with affection as you are with your time. And Aziraphale believes he’s as good as an angel needs to be, and as generous and giving, but he’s never had to spend time with a  _ child  _ before. And all the details of it—the cleaning and the feeding and the dressing—always seemed a little, frankly, distasteful to Aziraphale. Of course, he wholeheartedly supports raising children and devoting your whole life to them, but they baffle him a little. 

This entire day has been a mess. First the baby started crying, at three in the morning. It’s an ungodly hour, and Aziraphale would know, since he’s worked for God for over six thousand years, now. Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with a crying baby. When did they go over that, in training? They just threw Aziraphale into the Garden and told him to make it up on his own, which he thinks is dreadfully unfair.

At least the baby’s not crying anymore. Aziraphale found, through the wonders of the internet, that there’s a thing called powdered milk that people use nowadays, so the child isn’t hungry anymore, and as long as he makes sure it isn’t too hot or too cold or too bright or too dark the child seems to be alright.

What has he gotten himself into?

“You packed, I assume?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Of course I packed, what did you think I was doing all night?”

“Well, you did storm into my house with a child, unprompted. Your organizational skills aren’t exactly  _ on fire.” _

“Did you just say  _ on fire,  _ angel?”

Aziraphale pauses. “Yes, and it’s a perfectly normal thing to say.”

“Not for you, it isn’t.”

“Well, I found it on the internet, if you must know.”

“On the internet?” Crowley laughs. “Aziraphale, you need to get out more often.” Aziraphale pouts. “Anyway, I’ve got clothes, a fresh set of blankets, and lots and lots of alcohol.”

“Blankets? What’s wrong with my blankets?”

“First of all, they’re all tartan. Every single one. And they’re scratchy.”

“My blankets are perfectly adequate, thank you,” Aziraphale says, taking the sheets Crowley has placed on the table and shoving them back into his back. “But—ah.”

“What is it now?”

“You’ll have to—no, I’ll sleep on the sofa. You can take the bed. There’s only one, I’m sorry.”

Crowley gives him a Look, capital  _ l.  _ He seems to have forgotten to close his mouth. “I—you don’t have a spare bed?” The corner of his mouth twitches, and Aziraphale suddenly feels as if they’re speeding into very, very dangerous territory.

“I, erm.” 

“Ah, well, can’t have the host sleeping on the sofa, can we?” Crowley says.

“I really think it’s more proper—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel,” Crowley says, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulder and pushing him toward the door to the apartment. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“Oh. Oh, all right. Of course,” Aziraphale stammers, hoping to God he isn’t blushing. That would be frightfully inconvenient, not to mention embarrassing. “Of course,” he repeats, a little quieter, once he’s up the stairs and out of earshot. “Oh, Crowley!” he cries, realizing something.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley replies, leaning against the doorframe. The flat is dark, and he’s silhouetted against the warm light of the bookshop. Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry. 

Aziraphale picks up the basket and thrusts it toward Crowley. “Please take the child down there with you.”

* * *

“Crowley, what exactly is it that we’re doing?” Aziraphale finally asks. He’s made them both cocoa, but Crowley’s is sitting untouched and cooling in front of him. They’re sitting at the little table in Aziraphale’s apartment, light streaming stubbornly through the curtained window. 

“What’d’you mean?”

“I mean,” Aziraphale sighs, “with the child. With the baby. I mean, we’ve established we know nothing about children. And we’re keeping it in a basket, for goodness’s sake.”

“Yeah, maybe we should buy it a crib.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Crowley. I’m saying—are you sure it wouldn’t be for the best to just give it away? There are so many adoptions agencies, so many orphanages.”

“I suppose, but look at him. He’s got no mother, no father. No birth certificate. I’m pretty sure he needs proof of existence in order to be put up for adoption.”

“We’ve got proof of existence—he’s right there! And frightfully loud,” he says, as the baby starts to wail once again.

“Documentation, Aziraphale. We can’t miracle everything.”

“But we—we can’t raise a child, Crowley. You’re a demon, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Yeah? What is that supposed to mean?”

“We’ll have to nurture him, teach him about morality and everything.”

“Oh, so just because I’m a demon, I don’t have a moral compass?”

“Well, yes. That’s how it works!”

Crowley takes a breath. “How long is it gonna take for you to start trusting me, angel?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say for a moment. “We’ll—we’ll have to enroll him in school.”

“Oh, I doubt it’ll come to that. We’ll figure out the papers, do something. Could you find books on this stuff? Adoption and birth certificates and everything?”

Aziraphale brightens. “I definitely can.” And then, “And can you please feed the child? You’re the only one that can make him stop crying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try and keep this from getting too heavy (despite my tendency to angst-ify everything I write), so I should be able to update once a day. Please leave a comment if you liked it, and see you tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked what they'll name the baby??

“Arthur!” Crowley cries the next morning, as Aziraphale makes himself a mug of cocoa. He’s given up trying to make one for Crowley; he knows it’ll just sit and get cold, which is a dreadful waste. 

“Arthur? Whatever do you mean?”

“Arthur! It’s a name, and it’s not biblical. Not like Adam, or Abraham, or Elijah.”

“I rather liked Elijah, actually,” Aziraphale says, sitting down with his cocoa. Then, “I suppose it goes without saying that you don’t want breakfast?”

“Angel, you know I don’t eat food. What I’m saying is, we can’t exactly use a biblical name. What would you think if I wanted to name him Lucifer?”

“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all,” Aziraphale says, horrified.

“See? That’s my point. So if I can’t name him Lucifer, then why can you name him Elijah?”

Aziraphale pouts. “Well, I suppose you’re right,” he concedes.

“So what’d’you think? Arthur?”

“I don’t know...I knew Arthur. The king. I was a knight of his,” Aziraphale muses, thinking back.

“Oh, I knew him, too,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s head snaps up.

“You knew Arthur? How?”

“Eh, the demon council was always running after me about him. Can’t have someone in authority doing all this  _ good,  _ you see. And all that stuff about the holy grail, and the noblest of them all. Really messed things up on our side. All over England, people were trying to turn good.”

“So you tempted him?”

“Nah. I mean, I tried, but it was dreadfully difficult getting in and out of the palace, and the king wasn’t allowed to have friends unless I was a knight or royalty. I snuck in once before realizing that royalty’s difficult and being a knight is a bore, so—”

“So you became a dark knight, I remember. You tried to tempt me off my path.”

“And you refused, yes,” Crowley says, looking up at Aziraphale. He’s taller than the angel when they’re standing, but he can’t seem to shake the need to slump and lean and loll every time he’s got a surface to sit on. “It  _ was  _ an awful century.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Dreadful.”

There’s a pause as they both think back to that century (where they had temporarily called off the Arrangement, and weren’t speaking, although that had nothing to do with the dreadfulness of the period, absolutely nothing). Then, Crowley says, as if coming back to reality, “Arthur, though? As a name?”

“It does have a certain charm, doesn’t it?”

“Arthur it is, then.”

* * *

They stand over the basket just over an hour later with a new problem.

“We can’t just leave the house without it, can we?” Crowley asks.

“No, of course not. It might suffocate, or—or climb out of the basket, or something.”

“Angel, I don’t think that a three day old  _ infant  _ is going to climb out of his basket on his own,” Crowley says wryly.

Aziraphale  _ tsks.  _ “All the same. Why don’t we just miracle it clothes?”

“Aziraphale, this is a child. We’re going to have to get him clothes someday. And knowing you, his entire wardrobe is going to be tartan.”

“Tartan is stylish!”

“You do know it’s not the nineteen fifties anymore?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer that. 

In the end, they wrap Arthur in a blanket and make a detour on their way to buying him a crib. There’s a tiny and very charming little baby clothes shop just down the street from Aziraphale’s bookshop. “Crowley, look!” Aziraphale cries, taking a tiny little suit off its hanger. 

“You’re completely ridiculous,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes, but Aziraphale catches him staring at the little shoes with a ridiculous smile on his face.

Eventually, they fill their little basket. Aziraphale couldn’t find anything he really liked, but he found several sweaters that were sensible enough, and a little onesie with a suit and tie pattern on it that was just too adorable not to get. Crowley’s choices were a bit...more. Only onesies, and in all manner of shape and color. Bright blue with frills, or a pale purple with sequins all over. He’s grinning like an idiot.

“We can’t have the child wearing  _ that,” _ Aziraphale says, horrified, when Crowley shows him a pair of lime green, sparkly socks. 

“I know,” Crowley says, with a devilish grin. “Ghastly, aren’t they?” And then he adds them to the basket. 

“And who are these for?” the lady at the counter asks, when they place their very full basket in front of the cash register. 

“He’s—” Aziraphale says, then runs out of words. He glances at Crowley for help.

“Our son,” Crowley says, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s lower back. Aziraphale stiffens and looks at him, but Crowley just smiles at the cashier. 

“Oh,” the woman says, nodding slowly. “Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, although he’s not sure exactly what she’s congratulating.

“And I want you to know,” she says, leaning in, “I support you.”

“Er—” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley, whose expression he can’t read, “yes. Well, thank you.”

“All right, well, that’ll be fifty-three pounds,” she says, and the strange moment is over. She hands them their things, neatly packed into a pink paper bag. Aziraphale’s always found the bright colors of the current century just a bit tacky, but he takes it and thanks her.

“What do you think that was about?” he asks Crowley as they exit the shop?   


“What did I think  _ what  _ was about?”

“The...the  _ I support you.  _ What did she mean?”

“Hm,” Crowley says, looking at the shop windows, at the people walking by them, anywhere but at Aziraphale. “Dunno, could mean anything.”

“Do you think…” Aziraphale says, and he’s not sure if he wants to smile or wring his hands.

“Think what, angel?”  _ Angel. _

“That she thought we were husbands?” Aziraphale asks, lowering his voice. He settles on wringing his hands.

“Oh, no, nah,” Crowley says, and he shrugs, the gesture a little  _ larger  _ than strictly necessary, “doubt it.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

* * *

 

Crowley refuses for about five seconds to put the baby in the little suit onesie, but Aziraphale pouts and he caves, as usual. “Fiiiiine,” he says, “but know that absolutely bloody nobody is going to take Arthur seriously wearing  _ that.”  _

“I think he looks like a little gentleman,” Aziraphale beams, holding him to his chest. 

“Absolutely bloody nobody,” Crowley grumbles.

The baby starts to wail, and Aziraphale panics a little. “Oh, no,” he mutters. “Crowley, I—pass me the milk, why don’t you.”

“Let me do it,” Crowley says, walking over and holding out his arms. 

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale protests, and the baby’s screams get louder. Crowley beckons, and Aziraphale places the baby in his arms, disgruntled.

Crowley rocks Arthur a little, and his cries stop. Aziraphale grumbles under his breath.

“What was that, angel?” Crowley asks, teasing.

“I think it’s ridiculous that the child likes you better. I’m the angel, I’m the nice one. You’re a demon. It’s not supposed to like  _ you. _ ”

Crowley opens his mouth, then shuts it, as if he’s decided against what he was going to say. “Ah, well, don’t be upset we’re raising a bastard.”

Aziraphale  _ tsks  _ and stands up. It’s late, and he wants cocoa. 

As the water boils, Aziraphale walks down the stairs, as quiet as he can. He peeks into the bookshop.

Crowley’s holding Arthur in the crook of his elbow, tapping his nose and murmuring to it. Arthur is staring up at him, rapt, and giggling his burbly little laugh. It’s dark and the bookshop is quiet, the rush of the street outside far away. Crowley’s voice and the little senseless words of the baby are the only sound.

Aziraphale wonders sometimes how Heaven had gotten things so wrong. Heaven lives for the large things, the large moments. Its entire  _ thing  _ is that one can’t be happy unless they’ve made something of themselves, unless they’ve accomplished something for the greater good or saved the world a couple of times. And Aziraphale spent so much of his life thinking that way too. That there was no way to find happiness unless he was accomplishing things, great things. Unless he was fighting in a war or guarding a garden. Anything small, anything easily happy, must be a temptation.

But here he is, in a dark and quiet bookshop that doesn’t sell books, watching a demon (a  _ demon,  _ for Heaven’s sake) play with a child. A quiet, simple moment, nothing in the great scheme of things. And it fills Aziraphale with such a sudden and bright warmth that he steps back a little. 

_ What has he gotten himself into?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a dragon and comments are my hoard, so please leave one if you liked the chapter!!
> 
> edit: i've got a sort of plot forming in my head, and i've adjusted the tags accordingly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring disgruntled customers, croissants, and the beginnings of a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it SEEMS like I'm tossing in every fanfic trope I possibly can, but I stg this happened naturally. I was wondering what would happen next, logically, and then I was like oh. OH.

Aziraphale wakes to a pounding on the door downstairs, similar to the one in his head. He groans as he sits up. He’d been woken similarly several times during the night, except by a surprisingly loud wail instead of the knocking.

It’s strange, because sleep isn’t something that Angels are supposed to need at all. In fact, for centuries he didn’t sleep at all, instead spending the nights travelling or looking at the stars. It was Crowley that slept—a whole century, at one point, if Aziraphale recalls correctly. But it’s become a habit, over the past millennium or so. Just another luxury that Aziraphale’s started to rely on, like the food and the books. It’s interesting, because it seems his body has started to rely on it too. That would explain the headache.

“Oh, goodness me,” he says, patting down his vest as he rushes downstairs. They creak as he walks, and he snaps his fingers to silence them.  _ Customers this early? It could only be _ —he glances at the clock as he hurries to the front door, and does a double take—eleven o’clock. Oh, dear.

“Sorry, I’m—so sorry,” he says wretchedly upon opening the door. There’s two women there, one much older, presumably the younger woman’s mother. 

“What’s going on? Your website says you open at nine-thirty,” she says.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. “There was some—” He wants to say  _ complications,  _ but that opens up a whole new host of issues, and he can’t go around telling anyone that there’s a child upstairs. What if Gabriel found out. Then Aziraphale would be in real trouble. “I’m sorry,” he says again, instead. “We’re open now.” He steps aside to let them in, and flips the sign around. 

“Oh,” he adds, “and the prices have been raised on all the books. Ten pounds extra, twenty on the prophetic ones.” The ladies grumble, and Aziraphale feels a little rush of relief—he can’t go  _ selling  _ anything. What sort of book collector would he be then?

And then he realizes something. “I don’t have a—excuse me, ma’ams, what did you mean about my web—”

But they’ve already stormed off, probably to give him one star on yelp. He tends to have that effect on customers.

Aziraphale doesn’t have a website. “Crowley,” he calls, walking back up the stairs, because if there’s been a website set up for him, there’s only one person that could have done it.

The Arrangement has only really been in place for around a thousand years, and Aziraphale cannot say if he’s grateful for it or not. On a surface level, he’s grateful, of course. It’s a way to ease the workload, fulfill Heaven’s demands without necessarily having to do it all himself. And there’s the new friendship, even if it is with a demon.

But it’s the friendship thing that Aziraphale finds so difficult to understand or deal with. It’s Crowley. Because yes, they’re friends, and yes, they help each other out when it’s convenient. They both love the earth and all the strange little comforts they find there. But sometimes Aziraphale can’t help but feel as if Crowley is looking for something else. A smile over crepes, or a certain look in his eye when they’re lolling about in the bookshop, drunk. A brush of fingertips, or a seemingly meaningless request. “We can run off together,” or “Y’know, I hear Alpha Centauri is nice this time of year.” “We can leave all this behind, Angel.”

Aziraphale can’t deal with declarations like these. Because these aren’t convenience, they aren’t about a mutual love of Earth. They’re about something bigger, something that Aziraphale’s never seen in Heaven or in Hell, only on Earth. Something he’s never experienced before.

And it hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. Every touch, every gesture. A set of books in nineteen-forty-five London. An offer, vulnerable and quiet, in the Bentley, under the nineteen-seventies lights. Because every time Crowley says these things, it’s like they’re a question, a plea, and saying yes would betray everything Aziraphale stands for. But saying no would tear Aziraphale apart.

Aziraphale climbs up the stairs. There’s only two rooms in his flat—a living one, with a tiny little kitchen, a dining area and a sofa, but no television. And his bedroom. 

The living room’s empty. A crib, next to the sofa, with a little sleeping baby in it, but no Crowley. The sofa, too, is empty, and Crowley’s blankets are gone from it. “Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says under his breath, looking around. Softly, the baby starts to cry.

* * *

Crowley hurries up the steps of the bookshop, pulling his jacket a little tighter around him. It’s a rainy London morning, and he can’t miracle himself dry, not in plain sight, so he does his best to keep himself and the two paper bags he’s carrying sheltered within the fabric.

The sign on the door says  _ open.  _ Aziraphale must have woken up. He pushes the door open quietly anyway, because he knows that Aziraphale can get engrossed in his studies, and he doesn’t want to surprise him. Aziraphale’s pacing across the worn rug in the back of the bookshop, wringing his hands. Crowley watches for a second, brow furrowing. “Angel?”

“Oh—” Aziraphale cries, turning suddenly, knocking the lamp off his desk and only catching it at the last second. Crowley raises his eyebrows and bites back a smile. “Crowley! What—I thought you were gone!”

“Gone?”

“I woke up, and the—the sofa was empty, and your blankets were gone. I thought you’d left me all alone.” His voice softens at the end of his sentence.

“Didn’t know you cared so much,” Crowley says, because he can’t help it.

“No—I—that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Aziraphale stammers, and it gives Crowley some delight to see Aziraphale so ruffled. “I need help with Arthur. I had to figure out how to make him stop crying all on my own!”

“Did you succeed?” Crowley asks. The walls of the bookshop are surprisingly soundproof (almost definitely the work of a miracle) and he wouldn’t be able to hear the baby either way. He suspects he already knows the answer, though.

Aziraphale pauses. “No,” he admits. Then, “Where were you, anyway?”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says, and snaps his fingers, clothes and hair drying in a second. “I got us,” he holds out the two paper bags, “croissants.”

“You got us croissants?” Aziraphale asks, and his smile is back, cheeks flushed. Crowley can’t help but smile back.

“Yes, Angel, croissants. Are you deaf?” Aziraphale doesn’t answer, and Crowley throws his coat over the sofa and saunters into the bookshop kitchen, then continues, “I know crepes are your favorite, but y’said there only were good ones in Paris.”

“That was three hundred years ago,” Aziraphale says, glancing this way and that, occasionally at Crowley. “There’s a new shop, a couple streets over. Sells the most scrumptious crepes you could imagine.”  _ Of course. _

“I believe,” Crowley says, leaning back on the counter, “that this is where a  _ thank you  _ would be appropriate.”

“Yes, um, you’re right. I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale says, and meets Crowley’s eyes, cheeks still rosy. “Thank you.”

“Very gracious of you,” Crowley says, smiling.

Aziraphale goes to reach for the plates, but Crowley’s closer, so he hands them over. 

They end up eating upstairs, off of Aziraphale’s ridiculously out of date but unexpectedly charming crockery. First, of course, Crowley feeds Arthur. Crowley whispers to him as he does it, bouncing him a little and trying to get him to smile (there’s something wonderful and so, so, un-Hellish about the baby’s little smile—he loves it, although he’d never admit it), until he glances up and sees Aziraphale watching him, a little grin on his face. “What?” Crowley snaps.

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale says, and then, “just seems like you’ve got a bit of kindness in you after all.”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, and finishes feeding Arthur silently, then sits down at the dining table.

“So, we’ve still got the issue of the child,” Crowley says, after a moment of poking at the croissant.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s things we have to do. Injections and such.” He turns the croissant over, but it doesn’t seem to be offering anything up.

Aziraphale shudders. “I’ve never gotten an injection. Horrid things, really, needles.”

“Yeah, but see, the kid’s not an angel. We can’t have him getting  _ sick,  _ that’d be loads more work.” He takes a bite, experimentally, and almost spits it out. “Sweet! That’s—Good Lord—Satan—” He takes a napkin and spits it out, then throws it away. “How the Heaven do you eat that?”

“It’s chocolate,” Aziraphale says, looking a little disgruntled. “It’s delicious.”

“Your taste continues to  _ astound  _ me, angel,” he says,  _ astound  _ sounding more like  _ disgust.  _

“You just don’t know how to appreciate anything fun.”

_ “Fun?”  _

“Yes, fun.”

“You call  _ that _ ..." he grapples for the right word, "monstrosity  _ fun?”  _ Aziraphale looks at Crowley innocently, and Crowley sighs, sitting back down. “The  _ point  _ is, I had an idea.”

“Should I be afraid?”

“Oh, no, it’s—” Crowley takes a breath. “Eh, it’s an idea. Y’know, just an idea.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s croissant, and Crowley gives him a permissive nod. Aziraphale puts the croissant on his own plate. “Well, out with it, then.”

“I thought he should be husbands.”

Aziraphale chokes on his croissant, and Crowley leans forward, patting him on the back in mild assistance. “You think we should—” Aziraphale says, coughing, “get married?”

“What? Oh, no, of course not. Just—y’know, pretend. I mean, we’ve got this baby, and we’re two men of the same age—that’s probably what the shop lady thought.”

“She did?” Aziraphale asks, eyes wide and anxious. “Does it seem like we’re married? Do you think anyone else thinks so?”

“Ngk—I doubt it,” Crowley says, choking a little bit on the words. “Anyway, that’s my point—we could use it to our advantage—at least, I thought that was the best strategy. Otherwise we’ve got to figure out the whole single parent thing, who  _ is  _ the parent, first of all, and then if it’s you, what am  _ I  _ doing at the pediatrician—it gets much more complicated.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows draw together. “Husbands,” he says, as if testing out the word.

“Just at the clinic. For simplicity’s sake. Not for real,” Crowley says hurriedly.

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods, apparently satisfied, and takes a bite of his croissant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading!! (the kudos count has doubled since yesterday, which.......terrifying, but thank you to all the new readers!) please leave a comment if you liked the new chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring clinics, lime green onesies, and lies coming from unexpected parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and a fuckton of gratuitous mushy feelings because i can't stop myself

They take a step onto the little staircase in front of the pediatric clinic’s door, and then Aziraphale turns around, hurrying back onto the sidewalk.

“Careful,” Crowley exclaims. Aziraphale had almost knocked Arthur’s little carrier. He’s swaddled up inside it, wrapped in a little white blanket in order to cover up his, using Aziraphale’s word,  _ garish  _ little onesie. Crowley argued that it’s only lime green, but he does admit that the sequins are a bit much. It delights him for no reason at all. 

“This is a bad idea. I told you from the start, and I was right. This is a bad idea.”

“Angel, you agreed to this. What is going on?”

“We can put him up for adoption, or, or—just miracle him healthy. I can’t do this,” he says, wretchedly.

Crowley makes an offended noise. “Didn’t know you found me so repulsive.”

“Crowley—we don’t have documentation! Birth certificates, and all of that. It’s not the middle ages, we can’t just barge in!”

“So, we’ll get documentation,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and pulling a sheaf of papers out of his jacket.

“This is insane. You’re—you’re insane.”

“What has gotten into you? You were fine with this at breakfast.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Fine. Fine!”

“Yes, angel,  _ fine,  _ that’s what it’s gonna be. Now c’mon.”

“But I am not lying! I refuse to lie.”

“Alright, fine,  _ okay _ .”

Aziraphale frowns at him. “You’re doing all of this. Telling her we’re—we’re married, and giving her the fake documents. I’m an Angel, and I could get into so much trouble with the Head Office if they figure out I’ve been— _ consorting. _ ”

“Just...get in,” Crowley says, pushing the door open. Aziraphale  _ tsks  _ and steps into the clinic, Crowley just behind, baby carrier in hand. They walk up to the counter.

“What is it?” says a harried looking man. Crowley smirks; it’s always just a little too gratifying to see people in bad moods, just because he knows it usually means he’s in for a commendation.

“We’re here with, um. A baby,” Aziraphale says, then looks at Crowley for help.

“We have to get his injections?” Crowley says, the end going higher so that it sounds like a question.

“Can I have his birth certificate?” the man asks. He’s speaking quickly enough that it sounds like the words are tripping over each other to get out. Crowley hands the fake document over, then makes two different phones ring, just to stress the man out. To take his attention of the probably not up to par certificate, too, but also just because it’s fun. 

Aziraphale frowns.

“Just, oh, heavens,” the man says, looking around. There’s no one else in the waiting room, and he reaches for the phone on his left. “Erm—I’ll need it’s medical records, too.”

“Er—medical records?” Aziraphale asks.

“From the hospital,” the man says, and then he’s rushing off, talking hurriedly on the phone. He clearly can’t tell that it’s just the radio playing on the other hand, not yet. Crowley can’t  _ actually  _ miracle a person to call anyone, at least not without a fair amount of effort. Watching the man’s mounting confusion is very amusing. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, frantic.

“Ngk—give me a moment,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and pulling out another paper. “Oh, that’s not—that’s not right,” he mumbles. Aziraphale lays a hand on his shoulder. “What?” 

Aziraphale says nothing, just nods at the man at the counter, who’s put the phone down and is now looking much more anxious than before. “Medical records?”

“Here they are,” Aziraphale says, smooth as anything, and passes a paper that Crowley’s never seen before over the counter. It’s got a chart, and signatures, and everything.

Crowley raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale, who stares determinedly away from him. Crowley’s impressed.

“No record of a Hepatitis B vaccine,” the man says, hardly making it sound like a question.

“We actually adopted Arthur, and the nunnery where he was born didn’t have the vaccine on hand.”

The man scoffs. “Traditionalists,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I—yes.” Aziraphale lets out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Here,” the man says, placing the documents back on the counter, “I’ve got you down for Vitamin K and Hepatitis B. Head in when your number comes up.” He slaps a little slip of paper with three-zero-zero-six on it onto the counter and heads off before they can reply.

“Dreadfully rude,” Aziraphale mutters, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, staring at Aziraphale and not hiding his smile.

It takes about a half an hour for the pediatrician to finally call them in, and by that time all the staff of the little clinic are snapping at each other. Crowley hasn’t been in this good a mood in a while.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cries, pointing to the screen hanging in the upper corner of the room. “Three thousand and six.”

“Why, yes,” Crowley replies, and they head into the office.

The meeting itself is uneventful enough, save the fact that Aziraphale couldn’t watch Arthur get the shot. This, of course, prompted Crowley to throw his arm around his shoulders and say, affectionately, “oh, look away, sweetheart,” and then say conspiratorially to the pediatrician that “he’s a little afraid of needles. I had to hold his hand when he got his flu shot this year.” Aziraphale widens his eyes at him, blushing slightly, and Crowley pushes the normal fear and doubt out of his mind. He can’t  _ not  _ enjoy this.

They exit the clinic and step out onto the windy London street. Aziraphale adjusts his jacket, looking a little discomfited. Crowley puts a little more swagger into his step than usual, feeling the exact opposite of discomfited. He’s  _ comfited.  _ Extremely  _ comfited. _

“You all right, Angel? Feeling okay?”

“What the he—what was that, Crowley?”

“What was what?” Crowley asks, still smiling.

“The arm. And the—the affectionate anecdotes.”

“Ngk—you said it yourself, they’re affectionate anecdotes.”

“But they were lies! You made them up. And they made it sound like I was your—”

“Oh, your husband?”

“Yes!”

“I  _ am  _ your husband, Aziraphale. Or I was.”

There’s a few moments of silence, and then Aziraphale says, reluctantly, “I suppose it did help our credibility.”

“That’s the spirit.” Then, “And don’t call me out for lying, angel. That’s one thing you can’t be holier-than-thou about anymore.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. That was brilliant. Come up with all of that on the spot, did you?”

“If you must know, I prepared.”

Crowley lets out a bark of a laugh. “You  _ prepared?”  _

“I looked it up, last night.”

“On what, that ancient thing you call a computer?”

“Yes, on that ancient thing I call a computer. It was terribly confusing.”

“So, what, you prepared a lie? I thought angels never lied. I seem to remember you telling me I was insane when I suggested it.”

“Well, don’t go telling Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can’t stop grinning. If all the forces of Heaven and Hell told him, right now, to sober up and stop grinning, he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

“Oh, I won’t. That was genius. All that documentation. Maybe there is something to say for research.”

“You liked it?” Aziraphale grins, that infuriating little blush back. Except it’s not infuriating, not now.

_ “Genius.  _ I underestimated you, angel. _ ” _

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale can’t seem to keep his eyes on Crowley.

“ _ Really _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley, we see you. we know what you're thinking.
> 
> also, some logistics!! i've got like,, four plot points ready, and i know what the character arcs/main conflicts will be, so rest assured there will be a story. will there be time jumps?? will we follow the whole of arthur's childhood or just the beginning?? i do not yet know this. all i know is i have the attention span and stamina of a fish, so odds are this won't end up being a 155k epic (sorry folks). more likely it'll end up 20-30k. this is the first time i've started a fic without posting the expected number of chapters, so i just wanted to give yall a heads up!!
> 
> and as usual, please leave a comment if you liked the chapter, or hmu at @we-never-stop-fighting on tumblr!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring routines, plants, and simple misunderstandings.

They develop a routine, of sorts, over the next month. Crowley arrives every morning with breakfast from the bakery down the street, and they share it (or Aziraphale eats both portions and Crowley watches) over cocoa. They feed Arthur his milk and play with him for a couple hours, or until the first customers appear in Aziraphale’s shop. The customers will fawn over the baby and, occasionally, over Crowley and Aziraphale as a couple, which is confusing and uncomfortable and just a little too pleasing for Aziraphale. Then, Crowley’s off to do whatever it is he does during the day, and Aziraphale tends to his bookshop and tries, often unsuccessfully, to keep Arthur happy. 

Arthur’s taken up the habit of grabbing fingers and biting them, which is...a thing.

In the evening, Crowley will return, and the three of them will go to dinner. They’ve been experimenting—trying to visit every restaurant in London at least once. God knows they have time for it. They get home, try their best not to get wildly drunk, mainly because Aziraphale thinks it’ll hurt the baby, somehow. That they’ll drop him, or make some other horrible mistake. Crowley has a stash of eighties movies in his apartment, and he’s taken to bringing them over, along with an entire television, which can’t have been subtle. 

Aziraphale hasn’t ever really watched movies, not since the old days when you could go to a little theater with a light up sign on the front and watch them in black and white. He delights over seeing his favorite books on screen, but it irks him whenever them change it. It’s ridiculous, the idea that a filmmaker could write a better story than Jane Austen. But he participates, because despite his protests, staying up at night with Crowley, Arthur on Crowley’s lap, and laughing at actors from thirty years ago is strangely fun.

Aziraphale is looking forward to this evening especially. He’d had more customers than usual, plus some of those very distressing people that came to the shop now and again, asking to buy it. They never came back, but Aziraphale never enjoys their conversations. He’s ready not to have to think about anything important; to just be stupid and laugh everything away.

But then Crowley walks in with a plant. 

“Angel, help me with this, could you?”

“Crowley?”

It’s a large plant, much taller than Crowley, and leafy and majestic and completely out of place. 

“Just...help me, will you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, rushing over and taking some of the weight. He groans under it. “What is this?”

“It’s a plant. You’ve seen a plant.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he says, as they put the plant in question down in the corner of the room, by the new television. “What is it doing here?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno, I thought I’m basically moving in,” at which point Aziraphale loses the ability to breathe, but Crowley continues, apparently oblivious, “so I thought it was sensible for my plants to move in as well.”

Aziraphale coughs. “I didn’t—I didn’t know you had plants,” he says.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“I don’t know, I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

Aziraphale shrugs, aware of the ridiculousness of what he’s about to say, “that you weren’t the...parental sort.”

“Well, that must be wrong, eh?” Crowley says, smiling wryly. “Speaking of, I got Arthur here some more clothes.”

Aziraphale’s expression changes in an instant. “Why?”

“He’s growing. He’s getting big.” Crowley picks Arthur up, holding him up to his face. “Aren’t you, dear?”

Aziraphale looks away. “Why—why you, though? Your taste in clothing is terribly offensive.”

“Offensive?” Crowley laughs. “That’s a bit of a strong word, innit?”

“You bought him a hat with horns!” 

Arthur’s wearing the hat in question at the moment, something that Aziraphale avoided allowing for as long as possible, before Crowley wore him down.

“It’s adorable! Look at him, wee little devil.”

Aziraphale sticks his nose up in the air. “Well, I think it’s distasteful.”

“Oh—oh—you do, don’t you? Weren’t you the one that bought him tartan booties?”

“They were charming,” Aziraphale says primly.

“Tartan? Charming?”

“Let’s not talk about that now, let’s talk about why there’s a tree in my bookshop!”

“Oh, you don’t want to talk about it? Wouldn’t want to offend your majesty, would I?” Aziraphale glares at him, and he sighs. “I already told you. I’m moving in, and I thought it didn’t make sense for me to go all the way across London to my apartment to yell at my plants everyday when I could be doing it comfortably in your bookshop.”

“You yell at your plants?”

Crowley shakes his head and waves his hand, like he’s shooing the question away.

“Well, it doesn’t make sense for all of the plants to be at your flat, and only one of them here,” Aziraphale says, businesslike.

“Really?” Crowley asks, looking up at him.

“It’d be ridiculous. You can’t even get all of your  _ yelling  _ done in one house.”

“You sure? There’s an awful lot of them.”

“I have space in the flat,” Crowley says.

And that’s how Aziraphale’s bookshop turns from a charming little shop to a minor jungle.

“Are you really sure about this?” Crowley asks about six times as they drive to and from his house. Aziraphale is quite distracted by the honking and the swerving and the cursing, all by Crowley, (plus the plants, on the journey back, which kept shaking around and falling into one another) and he doesn’t answer.

“Really, though?” Crowley asks again.

“I’m fine, yes, fine— _ don’t _ —”

Crowley swerves, just narrowly missing a pedestrian. 

“Careful!” Aziraphale cries.

“Angel, this is your bookshop we’re talking about. Your pride and joy. I don’t want to clutter it up with all of my stuff.”

“I’m perfectly happy to—” Aziraphale says, and then,  _ “Oh, good god,”  _ as Crowley swerves again.

“You’re  _ sure.”  _

“Just—stop talking and watch the road!”

Crowley grumbles under his breath and grips the steering wheel.

There’s a strict set of rules, apparently, all of which Crowley lays out over dinner that night, this time at an Indonesian restaurant. 

The first one is no over-watering. No under-watering, either. This makes sense.

No leaving the plants in the shade. This, too, made sense.

The final rule about the plants is no  _ coddling.  _ This, to Aziraphale, does not make so much sense.

“No  _ coddling?”  _ he asks, taking a bite of fish curry. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, I dunno, no coddling. No sweet-talking them, or letting them think they’re better than you. That’s when they wilt.”

“I never knew that the way you spoke to them changed the way they grew. How do they understand?”

“Chemicals or something...I read a paper on it in the seventies. Or eighties, one of the two. The point is, careful how you treat them.”

* * *

Interesting, the differences between Angels and Demons. For example, in this case,  _ careful how you treat them  _ can be interpreted in many different ways. And when Crowley catches Aziraphale patting the plants on “their little heads” and showering them with praise, he almost throws a fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dammit aziraphale.
> 
> please leave a comment if you liked it, or hmu on tumblr at @we-never-stop-fighting!
> 
> (note: there most likely will not be a chapter up tomorrow, but i'll be back again on wednesday!!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring disgruntled employees, confusing grocery stores, and the beginnings of something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK!! i'm so sorry for disappearing off the map, but it's been a rollercoaster of a week. anyway, this new chapter is a tiny bit shorter than usual, but i hope you all like it anyway!!

The next time that Airaphale and Crowley have to pretend to be husbands, it’s a complete surprise, although not totally unwelcome, in Crowley’s opinion. They’re standing in the grocery store, fiddling with different bottles, trying to figure out what labels mean what. Their normal convenience store is closed for the day, but Arthur is out of food, and they’re not going another minute listening to him crying.

“Goat’s milk? Do you think that would be appropriate?” Aziraphale asks, holding up the carton and looking at Crowley for help.

“Pretty sure babies only drink human milk, Angel,” Crowley says, scrunching up his face at the shelves. There’s far too many of them.

“Well, I don’t seem to see our normal formula here. Are we in the correct section?”

“Why would there be a seperate section for baby milk? This is why I don’t go to grocery stores,” Crowley grumbles, placing a tin of coconut milk back on the shelf.

“Dreadfully confusing. And far too big.”.

“Bet you miss the old days, eh? Outdoor marketplaces, animals walking all over everything, having to be careful not to step in literal horseshit.”

“The markets were sweet,” Aziraphale protests, frowning.

“Literal horseshit, Aziraphale. Feces.”

“It was…” Aziraphale says, grappling for the right word, “charming.”

“ _Charming_.”

“Oh, I suppose you like this better? There are six different types of soy milk on this shelf, Crowley, and not a single one looks edible. And don’t even get me started on the package designs.”

“Oh, you’re complaining about aesthetics? You’re one to talk.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Aziraphale asks, affronted.

“Excuse me, are you looking for something?” The voice comes from behind them, friendly and upbeat. They turn to see a man in one of the green polo shirts that everyone at this God damned grocery store wears. The grin on his face irks Crowley. Bad moods mean that he can sit back and let things stew, hope that the humans will make evil themselves. Good moods just mean extra work. He resists the urge to topple one of the artfully-created can stacks, though, and plasters a smile over his face. Then, on a whim, throws an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale stiffens.

“Hey,” Crowley says, falsely polite. “We were just wondering where the milk formula is.”

“The baby formula?” the man asks, raising his eyebrows a little.

“Yes, the, um—” Aziraphale says, staring (Crowley can’t help but think _deliberately_ ) away from Crowley, “the baby formula.” He doesn’t seem to be quite as stricken as he had been back in the doctor’s office, and to Crowley’s shock, he continues speaking, relaxing and even leaning forward conspiratorially. “We’ve got a little one at home. Frightfully large appetite, the sweet thing, and we couldn’t seem to find any more milk for him.”

“And, uh,” the man says, forcing a laugh, “no one at home to make the milk herself, I suppose.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, smiling in his obnoxiously (and adorably) bright way, “it’s just us.” Then, he turns and taps Crowley on the nose. “Isn’t it, my dear?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and takes a breath. With Crowley’s arm around Aziraphale, their faces are less than a foot apart, and Crowley forces himself to lean back a little. For propriety's sake.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, a beat too late, and clears his throat. “Yeah, just us. Where did you say the baby formula was?” he says, forcing himself to turn back to the employee.

The man raises his eyebrows at them again, then shakes his head and beckons them toward a whole other aisle. This one’s in a completely different section of the store, and it’s got not only baby formula but all of the other new-fangled parenting _gadgets_ and such.

“Oh, Satan,” Crowley breathes, looking at one of the shelves. On it are stacks and stacks of swaths of fabric, in all different fabrics and styles. Wrap slings, they’re called. Crowley’s not sure if he’s disgusted or delighted.

“Crowley, those are adorable,” Aziraphale cries, beaming at him.

Crowley wipes the grin off his face. “These? Nah, these are—these are awful. Distasteful. Just carry your baby yourself.”

“They’re sweet!” Aziraphale protests, and Crowley smiles in spite of himself. Aziraphale widens his eyes at that, and Crowley forces his face back into something like a frown.

“Distasteful. Let’s just get the milk and be done with it.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale grumbles.

They thank the store employee, and he walks off.

“Aziraphale, wow,” Crowley says.

“Excuse me?”

“Lying. I didn’t know you were so good at it.”

“We’ve had the conversation before, my dear.”

Crowley grins. “I know,” he says, “but this is different.”

“And what makes this different?”

Crowley knew Aziraphale would try to make him explain why, exactly, pretending to be in a loving relationship is different from forging documents. But he just says, “Dunno. It’s just...different,” and shrugs. Then. “Ooh,” as he walks over to the tiny little baby clothing section.

“I swear, Crowley, one moment you’re talking about how distasteful a baby sling is, and how you’ll never buy one, and then you’re going on about how delightfully frightful a stripey elf hat is!” Aziraphale exclaims, walking over to wear Crowley stands. It’s a tiny little segment of the shelf, but it has some of the ugliest little baby hats Crowley can imagine. He, of course, finds this wonderful. Aziraphale continues, “I don’t understand you. Do you enjoy frightful things or not?”

“There’s a difference, Angel,” Crowley says, like it should be obvious. “Some things are just ridiculous—”

“There’s absolutely nothing ridiculous about wanting to carry your child around in a little sling!”

“Well, I—I think it’s ridiculous.” He doesn’t, but he has a reputation to consider. “And then there’s disgusting little things like this,” he says, holding up a hat that looks like the top of a strawberry, “which are just harmlessly delightful! Oh, I should call in the Head Office about these, they’re perfect.”

“You’re—you’re—” Aziraphale sputters.

“I’m a what?” Crowley asks, deadpan.

“You’re a total riddle! I can’t understand you.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale for a moment. “Who says you have to understand me, angel?”

Aziraphale meets his eyes. “Nothing, I suppose. But I’d like to.”

Crowley says nothing, and Aziraphale gives him a little smile. As Aziraphale walks by, he lets his hand rest on Crowley’s shoulder, just for a second. A fleeting little touch.

Crowley tells himself not to smile, not to watch Aziraphale as he walks toward the cash register, but he does anyway. Then he laughs.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, turning.

“I dunno, just. An angel and a demon, in a grocery store, looking for baby formula, for a child that their raising. It’s funny.”

“I’m fully aware of the ridiculousness of our situation, Crowley.” Then, a little sheepishly, “Now come over here and help me; I don’t have any money.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp!* aziraphale, that's very inappropriate.
> 
> anyway, welcome to the good omens fandom, where you can't write a tiny touch without feeling like you should add 50k words (or six thousand years) of buildup first
> 
> as always, please leave a comment if you liked the chapter!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring temperatures, out-of-earshot declarations, and a fair amount of panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 11/7: some of the formatting in this chapter is a little bit messed up, so i'm trying to fix it, but if there's underlined words instead of italics or smth like that, just bear with me

Aziraphale wakes up in the middle of the night to a frenzied wail coming from the crib at the end of the bed. He sighs as he sits up—he’s already gotten up once, just a couple hours earlier, and he’s completely not ready to do it again. He snaps his fingers, turning on the little light on his bedside table, and walks over to the crib.

“Oh, good lord,” he mutters, picking Arthur up and trying to bounce Arthur like Crowley does when he wants Arthur to stop crying.

“Arthur, what am I doing?” he asks, quietly, and wishes he could be wringing his hands.

Arthur stares up at him. Aziraphale can’t tell if he’s fooling himself or if there’s some wisdom in Arthur’s wide eyes.

“See, he’s a demon. And I suppose you don’t know what that means, either. But we’re enemies. At least, that’s what Gabriel says.” Aziraphale purses his lips, worried. “Actually, no, that’s what I know. I’ve known that forever. One side is demons, and the other side is angels. Evil against Good.”

“Gah,” Arthur says solemnly. Aziraphale smooths his sweat-soaked hair off his face absent-mindedly.

“But he’s not evil. I mean, I think he’s not. He’s saved my life, Arthur. So many times. And I think that he—well, I suppose I don’t know about that. I just don’t know how to do any of these. How to be friends with a demon, let alone—” he cuts himself off again and sighs. “I know you don’t understand, because you’re a baby, but sometimes you have duties to a higher power. And sometimes you’re ordered to do things that you don’t understand, or that you don’t think really follow the code at all. Drowning a planet, for one. And that makes me think that maybe everything they taught me wasn’t right, that maybe there are some things they got wrong.” Then, “Look at me, this is ridiculous. I’m talking to a _baby_.”

“B...bay,” Arthur says, opens his mouth, and promptly throws up all over his blankets.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, no.” Then, louder and a little frightened, “Crowley?”

There’s a crash downstairs, and Aziraphale rushes down, trying his best not to trip on the steps in his haste. He’s not used to hurrying, but oh dear.

And Crowley’s on the ground, of course, seemingly by accident, blanket wrapped half around him, and a lamp fallen down with him. “Damn these blankets,” Crowley grumbles, trying with little success to disentangle himself.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley looks up like he hadn’t noticed he was there.

“Aziraphale, was that you making all the racket?”

“I—it was Arthur; I think he’s sick.”

Crowley stills. “Sick—how do you mean?”

“I mean—he vomited. It’s all over him.”

“Yeah? Are you sure it’s not just spit-up?”

“He last ate hours ago.”

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t know, Angel bodies don’t do sickness,” Aziraphale says wretchedly.

The crying goes several decibels higher, and Crowley’s face goes from irritated to rather panicked. He leaps up, but gets caught up again in the fabric, and tumbles back to the ground. “Ngk—I want to—agh— _damn it!”_

“Alright, slow down, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, putting a steadying hand on Crowley’s shoulder (he stills under Aziraphale’s touch) and trying to quell his own growing panic. Aziraphale takes hold of the blankets, unwrapping them himself.

As soon as he’s done, Crowley shakes himself free and scrambles up the stairs, Aziraphale rushing after him. “Oh, Arthur, what’s happened?” Crowley murmurs, reaching in and taking Arthur out of his crib.

“Is it bad?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands. “Oh, heavens, if it’s bad—”

“Does it look like I have a medical degree?” Crowley asks, but Aziraphale can tell it doesn’t come out quite as sharp as it might once have.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says helplessly.

“I don’t know, angel, I haven’t had to deal with sickness before either! Satan knows a demon doesn’t get fevers.”

“Fever? Is that what this is?”

“That was just—that was just an example. I don’t know, what are the symptoms of a fever?”

“I don’t—I don’t remember!”

Crowley groans, peeling back Arthur’s soiled clothes. “Are you serious? You recited the entirety of Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road yesterday, and you don’t know what fever symptoms are?”

“You know, I might have a book on it,” Aziraphale says, and turns to go to the door, then pauses and looks back.

Crowley takes a little towel, wets it, and starts to clean Arthur, then holds him to his chest when he starts to cry. He bounces Arthur up and down a little, murmuring words of comfort to him, and the cries turn to happy gurgling. Aziraphale tries not to smile fondly.

Not this again, Aziraphale. Whose voice is that? Gabriel’s? Or is it Aziraphale himself? _Focus_. 

* * *

 

Apparently the observable symptoms for a fever are nausea, a heightened temperature, chills, and excessive sweating, all of which Aziraphale finally finds in one of the few medical books he has, tucked away in the back of a bookshelf. He hurries upstairs to find Arthur in Crowley’s lap, sparse blonde hair plastered to his forehead, burning up.

This should be a relief. It’s just a fever, apparently common in humans. A simple thing. But is it that simple for Aziraphale and Crowley? They haven’t dealt with sickness before, not for centuries. What if they do something wrong?

Aziraphale’s had countless opportunities to learn things about humans, to learn how to cure them and how to heal them. But he’d never thought it necessary when he can just miracle people out of harm’s way. And now he’s completely useless. He’s always useless.

Aziraphale puts a hand on Arthur’s forehead again, just to make sure.

“We need a wet towel. A cold one.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley asks.

“It—the temperature. It’s higher than it should be, for humans, and I read that we should cool his forehead.”

“Here,” Crowley says, placing Arthur in Aziraphale’s arms and hurrying off in search, presumably, of a wet towel.

“Wait, don’t—” Aziraphale protests, but Crowley’s downstairs already.

Arthur decides it’s a good time to vomit all over Aziraphale’s jacket.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale groans. “I’ll never get this out. And _you_ ,” he says, looking down at Arthur, “now we have to clean you up again.”

“I’ve got the towel—and it is, frankly, ridiculous-looking, by the way—oh, no,” Crowley says, stumbling up the stairs and freezing when he sees what happened.

“I’m sorry, I was just watching him, and I’m not sure if I—”

“No, your jacket. You just got it cleaned.”

“I—you remembered?” Crowley doesn’t answer. “It’s fine, I’ll just go in again tomorrow.”

“Here,” Crowley says, reaching out and taking the jacket off of Aziraphale’s shoulders for him. “I’ll try and get the stain out, you clean up Arthur.”

“Oh, that’s all right—” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley’s already heading over to the sink. Aziraphale opens his mouth, shuts it, and turns and starts undressing Arthur.

For a few moments, the only sound is the sound of Crowley scrubbing away at the jacket and Arthur’s quiet whines. Then, Aziraphale asks, “What if we mess all of this up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we try to raise this child and then we ruin it? What if we drop him? What if we can’t raise a child right?” He looks at Crowley. “What if he gets sick and we can’t make him better?”

“Oh,” Crowley says, with a wry smile, “you’re an Angel, I don’t think you can mess something like this up.”

Aziraphale laughs a little. “You said that, in the garden.”

“I did.”

“Do you mean it?” Aziraphale asks, voice a little uncertain.

Crowley leans back on the counter. His sunglasses are downstairs by the couch, and his eyes are exposed and unreadable, even to Aziraphale. He opens his mouth, then shuts it like he’s changed his mind, and shrugs. “As long as we keep Arthur away from your closet, I’m sure this’ll all work out fine,” he says, turning back to the jacket.

Aziraphale tsks and turns back to Arthur, who, bless his little soul, is now trying to stuff his whole hand into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi yes babies are fucking dumbasses i love them so much
> 
> comments feed me when the souls of the innocent can't (have i used that one already?? it's midnight and what's new i'm sleep deprived so who knows) so please leave one if you enjoyed the chapter!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring boredom, Oscar Wilde, and the first part of a new little experiment.

“Two days,” Crowley groans, throwing himself onto the sofa. “Two days! What the heaven are you supposed to do in a bookshop for two  _ days?”  
_

“It’s not so bad,” Aziraphale protests, sitting down in an armchair with  _ The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.  
_

“Not so bad, eh? What’s that book, again? Isn’t it the third one today?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it. “Possibly.”

“Ha! See? You’re feeling it too!”

“Fine!” Aziraphale cries, slamming the book shut and putting it a little more roughly than necessary onto the table. “But what are we supposed to do? It’s not as if we can leave.”

“Oh, no, can’t disobey the doctor’s orders,” Crowley says, his voice mocking.

“We  _ can’t,  _ that would be ridiculous.”

“I—urgh—I  _ know,  _ but what are we supposed to  _ do?”  _ Crowley moans, leaning his head back and throwing his arms over his eyes.

“I don’t know, but that’s not the issue. I’m not letting you tempt me out of taking care of Arthur.”

“Oh, so this is me being a demon, now, trying to tempt you into evils.”

“Yes!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, you’re ridiculous. We’re staying here.”

Crowley sighs. “Fine!” He stands up with far more flair than necessary and walks over to the nearest bookshelf. Aziraphale watches him warily. “Oscar Wilde, who’s he?” Crowley asks, pulling  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray  _ off the shelf.

“Oh, an old friend. We went out for tea a couple of times. Before he was...driven out of the country.”

“Oh?” Crowley asks, eyes lighting up with interest. “And why, exactly, was he driven out of the country?”

Aziraphale pauses, then says “Homosexuality,” delicately.

The mischievous look on Crowley's face vanishes. “Satan,” Crowley breathes, “sometimes you think humanity is so wonderful, and then…” He lets himself trail off.

“Was that my side or yours?”

“Oh, pretty sure it was yours,” Crowley says, sitting down with the book. “‘Man shalt not sleep with man?’”

“That was a mistranslation,” Aziraphale says, indignant. “You know that.”

“Clearly the humans don’t.” Crowley opens the book and leafs through it, finally settling on a page about halfway through. Aziraphale opens his mouth to tell him not to read like  _ that,  _ absolute heathen, that he should start at the beginning, but he stops himself.

This is what the past couple of days have been—just sitting in the bookshelf, Aziraphale in his chair and Crowley propped wherever he deems best at that moment ( _ best  _ sometimes meaning the sofa, sometimes the kitchen counter, and, on one occasion, in snake form nestled between the leaves of one of his plants) and making conversation.  


They sit for a while, flipping through their respective books, the sounds of the street outside dimming as time goes on. Once, Aziraphale stands to take off Arthur’s onesie (pinstriped and purple and yellow) and turn on the fan so that he doesn’t get too warm, poor thing.  


“Okay, this is too much,” Crowley says as Aziraphale sits back down.

“Excuse me?”

“ _ ‘I do hope we become closer in the future,’ Dorian said, resting a hand on the older gentleman’s arm and blushing at his own boldness.’  _ How long did it take Wilde to get arrested, again?”

“I don’t remember the exact year. It wasn’t right after the publication of that book, at least,” Aziraphale says, a little miffed.

“You’re telling me people read the words  _ blushing at his own boldness  _ and didn’t suspect a thing?”

“Clearly.”

“S’a marvel he didn’t get caught earlier.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s realistic,” Crowley says, putting down the book.

Aziraphale frowns. “What are you doing now?”

“Do you have any food?”  


“Food?”

“I’m  _ peckish,”  _ Crowley says.

“I suppose you could look in the kitchen,” Aziraphale says, opening his book again.

Crowley puts the book on the table with a bit more of a flourish than completely necessary and goes sauntering over to the little study and kitchenette in the back of the bookshop. Aziraphale is content with ending the conversation there, and he flips to _Richard II,_ but he can’t seem to stay focused on the words. For some reason, he finds himself watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye. As soon as he realizes he’s doing it, though, he stops, dragging his gaze down to the page before him.

Even if Crowley is going to be here permanently,  _ especially  _ if Crowley is going to be here permanently, (and despite the fact that Aziraphale keeps catching him doing small kind things, like making Aziraphale cocoa in the morning and cleaning up without being asked, despite the fact that every time Crowley looks at Aziraphale it makes his heart flutter), nothing is coming of this, and nothing will come of it, and it would be best for Aziraphale to just ignore whatever it is he’s feeling and continue with his life. For Heaven’s sake, Armageddon will arrive in all of its blazing glory in eleven years, and Aziraphale has been preoccupied with—

He doesn’t want to name it, because that will make it true. And if it’s true, then he’ll have no idea what to do. So he ignores it.

(There’s a voice in his head, though, that says  _ what if?  _ Even if nothing will come of it— _ because  _ nothing will come of it, really, why not indulge? Isn’t that what Aziraphale loves about humans, about this world? It’s that he can take part in the small joys. Nothing will come of it, and Heaven need never know.)

The voice is persistent. Aziraphale ignores it.

“You don’t have any food in your cupboard,” Crowley calls from the kitchenette, and Aziraphale stands to join him there. “How do you not have any food in your cupboard? I thought you liked food, I thought that was your  _ thing.  _ Imagine an Angel that likes food without any food in their cupboard.”

Aziraphale joins him in front of said cupboard and frowns. “Eggs, that’s food. And flour. And butter,” he says, looking around for a moment and then pointing to the little tray on the counter.  


Crowley pokes the butter and licks his finger, grimacing. “Well, how do you eat it?”

“You put them together, I think. They’re ingredients. You’ve heard of ingredients, haven’t you?”

There’s a put-out look on Crowley’s face. “Ngk—Of course I’ve heard of ingredients. I’ve just never...assembled them. Have you?”

“I don’t believe I have.” They look at the cupboard for a few moments, and a delighted grin spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “I think I have an idea,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eye.

“An—” Crowley says, and then understanding hits him, judging by his expression, like a brick to the face. “No, angel.”

“It’ll be fun!” Aziraphale says, clapping his hands together and starting to pull things off the shelves  


“ _ No _ —”

“Crowley, six thousand years, and we still haven’t cooked!”

“Yes, and there’s a reason for that!” Crowley exclaims, exasperated.   


“We’ll just have to decide what to make.”

“Have you ever cracked an egg in your life?”

“Crepes! Would that be too difficult? Or cookies!”

“This is...ridiculous.”

Aziraphale rounds on him. “You said you were bored.”

Crowley throws his hands up in surrender. “Satan, I’m going to regret this,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Fine! Crepes, I suppose.”

“Oh, splendid,” Aziraphale says, beaming.

There’s a moment where they look at each other, expectantly, until Crowley says “Do you...have a recipe?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, like he hadn’t even thought of that. “A recipe. Yes. I’ll go get my desktop computer.” And he rushes off, pausing only a moment to glance back at Crowley.

He’s leaning against the counter, a quiet sort of smile on his face, watching Aziraphale go. When Aziraphale meets his eyes, the angel’s broad grin sliding into something softer, Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Recipe? Or have you forgotten already?”

“Recipe, yes,” Aziraphale says sheepishly, and off he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, david tennant was in richard ii. yes, i cant help myself when it comes to references. stay tuned for about a million doctor who easter eggs in the future
> 
> sorry for the wait! the story in this chapter isn't technically finished, but I know that in the past whenever i've gone into a writing slump (even a very short one) posting a chapter or a short story usually gets me back into the rhythm of things. besides, this little foray into the culinary world ended up longer than i expected (or the banter at the beginning just kept stretching itself out, and it's no fun to cut fluff out)
> 
> but anyway, the second part of this thrilling little tale will be out tomorrow!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring crepes, drunken chatter, and the second part of a little experiment.

Before they even start opening bags (and there are a lot of bags, many of which Aziraphale can’t recall buying) they get Arthur’s car seat (unused until now, as Aziraphale is yet to allow the Bently within thirty feet of Arthur) and place it on the counter, Arthur snug inside. For safety. Then, t Aziraphale’s urging, they go hunting for whatever ancient aprons Aziraphale has tucked in the dusty corners of Aziraphale’s apartment.

When Crowley verbalizes this, Aziraphale tsks. “They’re not dusty. Nothing in my bookshop is dusty.”

“Must’ve been thinking of the wrong bookshop, then,” Crowley says, putting a victorian top hat back on the shelf.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, pulling two beige aprons out and smiling, “here they are.”

“Crowley coughs and snaps his fingers, miracling the plume of dust away. Aziraphale frowns, and Crowley gives him a taken aback look. “Oh, sorry, your  _ majesty,  _ would you like me to put the dust back?” He turns away, inspecting the fabric. “At least it’s not tartan.”

Aziraphale tuts for the second time. Then he seems to remember what it is they’re doing this for, and he breaks back into a smile. He pulls the apron over his head, and takes the other two strings. He realizes that he can’t very will tie them behind his back himself, but before he can even look flustered, Crowley holds up a hand and does a  _ c’mere, I’ll help  _ beckon.

“Oh—” Aziraphale says, but he swallows his protests. What’s the point? “Alright.”

“Nasty things,” Crowley mutters, tying Aziraphale’s and then turning so Aziraphale can do the same for him. “Takes practice.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, once they’re done, “I just have to figure out which one’s sugar and which one’s salt, and then we’ll be ready to begin.”   


As it turns out, it’s easy to distinguish the salt from everything. Finding the sugar proves a tad bit more difficult. The salt is in its shaker and tastes, as far as Aziraphale and Crowley can tell, exactly how salt should taste. Whatever is in the sugar jar, though, is distinctly sour-tasting.   


“Sugar is meant to be sweet, right?” Crowley asks, licking some of the sugar imposter off his finger and grimacing.

“You would think it would be, wouldn’t you? It’s always sweet once it’s mixed up in something.”

“Then it should be sweet on its own, too. You’d think.” They stare at the offending jar for a moment, then Crowley snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it.”

“You’ve got what?” Aziraphale asks, staring at Crowley’s hand in horror. “What did you do?”

“No—no, Angel, I’ve—never mind,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “What else is in here?"

“I don’t know, I just…miracled it, I suppose. I just put whatever you put in a pantry. I didn’t think through the details.”

“So you don’t really know what any of this stuff  _ is.” _

Aziraphale looks at the cupboard, stacked full with jars and paper bags, all unidentifiable to him. “Yes,” he says delicately. “But they still work, don’t they?”

“What do you mean, they’ll still work? For all we know, this salt,” Crowley says, picking up the shaker, “is naughty salt, if you catch my drift.”

“Crowley, that’s ridiculous!”

“Is it?” Crowley says, raising his eyebrows.

Aziraphale can’t argue with that, but that’s no the point anyway. “No, you don’t understand.” He takes a breath. “It’s like your sound system.”    


“My  _ sound system?” _

“Yes, your—your speakers.”

“Wait a moment, Angel, when have you been to my house?”

“I let myself in, but that’s not the point.”

“You  _ let yourself in?”  _ Crowley asks. His eyebrows are nearly risen right off his forehead and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. Aziraphale can’t help but feel a flush of pleasure at that, even though he knows Crowley would only be impressed by something truly  _ bad,  _ and Aziraphale’s quite sure he’s never done something bad in his life. Other than consorting, of course.

“I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to borrow a pen. It was nothing,” Aziraphale says firmly. Rowley huffs in a vaguely amused way. “The point was that the sound system is supposed to have black things, called  _ speakers.  _ There was dreadful music playing, be-bop, I suppose,” (Crowley winces, “and I wanted to turn it off. But your sound system doesn’t have speakers.”

Crowley shrugs. “Works just fine anyway.”

“That’s my point, Crowley. Maybe even if the ingredients aren’t...arranged right, they’ll still work.”

“Like my sound system.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says.

Is it a flawless plan? Doubtful. But is it going to work? Almost definitely.

Before they know it, their aprons and a.most all of the rest of them are white, the clouds fo fluor sparing nothing. Aziraphale is not happy about this, but Crowley cannot stop giggling over it.

“Look at the state of this jacket!” Aziraphale cries, putting his wooden spoon down and patting at the fabric. “I just washed this. Twice!”

“Oh, lighten up! It only looks a little worse than usual.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a confused look, and Crowley says, “Tartan,” by way of explanation. Aziraphale frowns.

“I like this jacket!”

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, holding his hand in front of Aziraphale’s face, “Remember this?” He snaps his fingers and the flour floats off Aziraphale.

Aziraphale frowns. “It doesn’t count,” he says primly.   


“What?” Crowley asks, taking a handful of flour and throwing it in the air in a magnificent cloud, painting both of them white.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, looking down at himself.

Crowley grins and snaps his fingers.

“You are…” Aziraphale says, patting down his now-clean jacket and fumbling for the right word, “ridiculous.”

“Ah, yes, and you’re ethereal, of course. Holy.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows—he’s never seen Crowley like this. “Have you had something to drink?”

Crowley looks taken aback. “Of course not. It would be a little careless of me to drink when we’ve got a baby under our wing, so to speak, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would be quite careless,” Aziraphale agrees warily.

“Yes,” Crowley says, and, upon meeting Aziraphale’s still rather confused eyes, “and I didn’t.”

“Why are you...like  _ this,  _ then?” Azirphale asks, gesturing vaguely.

“Dunno,” Crowley says, shrugging. “Just hapy, I guess.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, voice a little breathless.

The rest of the process goes somewhat smoothly, although they do, unsurprisingly, have some issues with cracking the eggs. (“How the heaven did you cut yourself on an eggshell, Angel?” Crowley asks, putting a bandaid on the injured finger.

“Well, I didn’t expect it to be quite so sharp!”)

And, fitting with the theme of Aziraphale’s frial relationship with technology—which, despite Crowley’s repeated insistence that it is, indeed, terrible, Aziraphale hadn’t until now realized was quite so fraught—the stove doesn’t work. It looks like a stove, feels like a stove, but opening the contraption itself proves it quite empty. Apparently, empty is something it’s not supposed to be.

“So just miracle the insides,” Crowley says, shrugging.

“I can’t! Frivolous miracles, and all of that. I can’t exactly say I needed a stove.”

“Why not?” Crowley asks teasingly, shrugging again. (It’s worth noting that there are several types of Crowley shrugs—one being full bodied, with the scrunched face and the lifted shoulders, and one being tiny, more of a head tilt than a shrug really. This one is the latter.) Aziraphale frowns at Crowley. “Fine, I’ll do it,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers.

The crepes turn out a little too thick, and much sweeter than they should be for no reason at all, bu tthe two of them still eat it (Crowley a little reluctantly), along with the strawberries and whipped cream that seem to have appeared in Aziraphale’s refrigerator.

“Won’t Hell be bothered about  _ your  _ frivolous miracles?” Aziraphale asks, eyebrows knitting. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble, not merely for crepes that you seem to not even be enjoying.”

“Nah,” Crowley says. “Anyway, it’s worth it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, for the second time that evening. “Well,” he says, straightening his apron and pulling himself together, “in that case, thank you.” And he flashes Crowley a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my logic might be *slightly* suspect in this chapter, but uh. we're ignoring that
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter, or hmu on tumblr (@we-never-stop-fighting) or on twitter (wylan-vanecks)!!


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